


loose tongues.

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Marvel
Genre: Desperation, Drunk Sex, Drunkenness, Dubious Consent, M/M, Pining, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 13:10:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15886713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: It's hard to hold one's silver tongue when one is too drunk to stand.





	loose tongues.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Frostmaster, the Grandmaster likes Loki best when he's a little too drunk.

Loki has never been a big drinker. As a young man, he found that most of the meads and ales of Asgard were too sweet for him, and he didn’t enjoy the sensation of being too drunk when he found he could withstand the sweetness of an evening. 

Only once in his life, soon after the first time he had been permitted to join his brother and fellows in the field for their first battle together, had he been drunk enough to stumble as he moved, drunk enough that the room was spinning and he could scarcely control himself, and Fandral - like the graceful, dashing knight he is - had carried him over his shoulder back to his quarters, where out of embarrassment Loki had promptly burst into tears.

Loki had expected the other man to mock him ceaselessly, but he never had. Fandral had never mentioned it again, to Loki’s surprise - noble down to his bones. 

“I miss Fandral,” Loki mumbles, his voice clumsy, and he lets out a soft noise of surprise as his knees buckle from under him: he’s too drunk, now,  _far_  too drunk. The room is spinning and the lights around him are too bright; Loki struggles to remain steady on his feet, and the Grandmaster catches him under his arms, dragging him up against his cheek.

“Who’s, uh, who’s  _Fandral_ , honey?”

“M’friend,” Loki mumbles miserably against the Grandmaster’s chest, and he feels tears prick at his eyes despite how little it matters. Fandral–  _Had_  Fandral been his friend, really and truly? Fandral had been–

But he had been loyal, hadn’t he? He had never told anyone about how drunk Loki had been, about him crying into his bed sheets and against Fandral’s warm thigh, the way he had mumbled–

He doesn’t even remember.

“Was he, mmm– Handsome?”

“Mmm,” Loki hums. “Grandmaster, I– I’m too… I don’t like it. ‘M too drunk.”

“Aw, I think you’re  _just_  drunk enough,” the Grandmaster purrs, and he kisses Loki’s mouth: Loki’s lips are slow and clumsy, and he feels like he is all but dribbling as he tries to lean into it, because it feels sloppy and messy, slow and– Loki comes away with a soft  _smack_ , and he falls against the Grandmaster’s chest. “Gee, honey, I, uh… Let me just pour you into my lap, huh?”

The Grandmaster sits back, and Loki drops into his lap heavily, clumsily. He can’t control his tongue. So much just drips from between his legs - secrets, things he wouldn’t share,  _confessions_ … 

“You’re just the most– You’re so  _beautiful_. You know that, honey? I just, uh, I gotta say, it’s such a pleasure to have you around because you are just the  _cutest_ , and I love to hear you talk about your little friends… You ever, uh, think about kissing him? This  _Fandral_?”

Loki has.

“No,” he lies, and he hates the whine in his own voice.

“Liar liar,” the Grandmaster whispers. “Pants on fire. Bet you wanted to kiss him. Handsome… What, uh, what was he, huh? A guard?” Loki shakes his head. “Mmm, a– a  _servant_?” Loki shakes his head. The Grandmaster gasps, faux-scandalised, and then he asks, “Was he, mm… Was he big brother’s friend, huh?”

Loki bites his lip, and he wishes he could simply keep it  _secret_ , wishes he could hold his tongue without his slack-jawed, drunken face betraying all– But he is positively  _drowned_  in drink. He gives in, too easily.

“He was… So kind to me,” Loki mumbles, the words mumbled against the Grandmaster’s neck. “He was always… No one ever– On Asgard, they hated me, but not me, and then when I… When I stood in Thor’s way, he lost his respect for me. The way he looked at me, when he thought I had gone mad…” Loki cannot help it, as drunk as he is. The tears are hot on his cheeks, and he sobs,  _sobs_ –

The Grandmaster coos, and he plays with Loki’s hair as he talks, and talks, and talks. 

                                                   —

“I, uh, I like you when you’re drunk like that, honey,” the Grandmaster says the next day, when Loki has a bag of ice pressed against the side of his head, and has his eyes tightly closed in a big to prevent the  _throbbing_  within him. “You just, uh– You just  _talk_  so much.”

“Really?” Loki asks, dryly. “I thought you liked how like a ragdoll I was when you fucked me, lolling back, scarcely able to blink my own eyes.”

“Mmm, I liked that too.” The Grandmaster strokes his knuckles down the side of Loki’s face, and Loki exhales, slowly. “I, uh… I had, um, I had an  _idea_. About this, uh, this Fandral guy…” 

He whispers such filth in Loki’s ear that Loki cannot help but respond, until he fucks Loki with his hand around his throat, with Fandral’s name on his tongue–

It’s stupid. It’s silly of him, that it hurts.

“Is he dead?” Loki asks, afterwards, when he is fucked out, and messy. “Could you– Could you find out? If he was?”

“Oh,” the Grandmaster murmurs, and he plays his fingers over Loki’s chin. “That, uh, that hardly matters, huh, baby? You’re here now, on Sakaar. No need to worry about that, mmm, pesky past.” Loki isn’t sure if it’s a yes or a no. All he knows is that he doesn’t want to  _think_  about it, and so he buries his face in the Grandmaster’s lap, and lets the Grandmaster toy with his hair.

( _Fandral is dead. He must be dead. He must be. He **must**  be.)_

_(What if he’s alive?)_

**Author's Note:**

> [Hit me up on Tumblr](http://dictionarywrites.tumblr.com/faq). Requests always open.


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